April 7, 2010 Ugh. Hello, ugly black boot.
This past weekend, I fell into a hole of sorts. We’ll just summarize with the fact that there was a drainage ditch in a parking lot that someone lovingly covered up with a long, orange-brown rug. It was wedding-appropriate for these peeps wedding, so they covered up this long gaping hole in a parking lot in front of a buffet table with a rug. I was working said wedding and stepped into the hole. What followed became a poetic-like tragedy: I twisted my ankle.
The pain was intense, but brief. I had work to do assisting FFI as photographers assistant, and I had no time to feel pain. So I bucked up, popped a few advil, and kept on moving. It was within the first 20 minutes of the reception, and we had four hours left, and I had no ability to whine and cry. Besides, I’m admittedly a clumsy person. I’ve twisted my ankle at least a million and ten times. How bad could it be, right?
When I got home, I took off my shoes and admired the swollen goodness of my ankle. It looked like a baseball had crawled beneath my skin. I thought, “self, you walked on this too much!” and then went to bed. I woke up with pain. The kind that comes from a really swollen ankle. But it was Easter, and I had no time for feeling sorry for myself. Just a silly sprained ankle. I bought an ace bandange and put some peas on the swelling and told myself to buck up. This ankle is a perfect representation of what my ankle looks like:
I hobbled it up to work Monday and tried to hang tough, singing New Kids all day. It kept getting more and more swollen, and more and more painful. I googled sprained ankle. I consumed information like a fiend, reading about how I was doing everything right. I was RICE-ing. I was trying to keep off it as much as possible. I was rocking flip flops instead of tennies (my bloated foot could not fit in it). Monday night I self medicated with whiskey and ginger ale and copious amounts of Advil. Should have done SOMETHING to dull my pain, right? No.
Yesterday, I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to go to the doctor. I figured that he could tell me why I sucked at the ace bandage or something. I arrive, and he wants to do xrays. They have to manhandle the hell out of your foot to take said x-rays. “Ok, now stretch you foot, point your toe, and roll your ankle this way.” Or my favorite, balance yourself on your fingers and step on the film. I got lots of magical pictures taken while exposed to radiology that will most assuredly result in the deformed children I’ll one day have.
Dr. goes to read the x-rays. Let me tell you, I ❤ this doctor. He’s awesome, nice, worked doing some relief work in Haiti. He’s nice, knowledable, whistled at the extent of my swolleness. He asked how I was able to deal w ith the pain. I shrugged. I have a high tolerance.
He comes back. Tells me that there’s a weird spot on the x-ray that makes him think there’s a hairline fracture. Just a little one, not anything to worry too much about. He gets a fancy boot and some ace bandange and gives me a prescription for pain pills and tells me I need crutches. Crutches.
So, today I venture out into the world with crutches and my boot. I’m going to decorate it with some bedazzle-beads, puff paint, and some assorted other things so I feel like a princess instead of a limping hazard to myself. I asked the Dr. if I really needed crutches, because I was afraid I might be too clumsy in them and invariably end up falling and breaking an arm. He didn’t believe I was that clumsy…or maybe I’m just cursed.
Anyway, next little bit I’m pretty much on slowdown mode. Woo.